If innocent flirtation sometimes lost us custom, there was one thing that was sure to gain more patrons - clickety-click, 66.
It was now late November and the sea of faces viewed from behind the bar had changed from the lively surf of suntanned exuberance to the flat, silver calm of a millpond.
There aren’t really seasons as such in Tenerife, merely different times of the year for different types of people. Summer, Christmas and most school holidays were obviously the time for families and groups of young students. November to April was the time for the ‘fish brigade’ as we referred to them due to their partiality for ‘a nice bit of fish’. Clickety-click was more or less the average age of our post-summer, pre-Christmas crowd. It was also their favourite pastime abroad.
The stalwarts would arrive twenty minutes before we were due to start, order a tonic water or half a shandy and sit down expectantly, pens poised at the ready until business commenced. If the first card didn’t kick off exactly at the time stated on our ‘tonight’s entertainment’ blackboard at the top of the stairs, the clucking began.
‘It said ten p.m. It’s ten past now.’ Bloody revolutions had started on the murmurings of less discontent.
Six cards were the norm for the specialists and as Joy read out the numbers, the concentration was intense. Comments such as ‘Hang on, I’ve dropped me balls.’ as number thirty-three bounced along the floor, were not appreciated.
We never knew who was going to win of course but I could always guarantee who wasn’t. Anybody with cards bearing numbers 6 or 84 were in for a long wait. Those particular balls had long since gone into hiding after a mass breakout during an uncharacteristic show of playfulness by Buster amidst our bingo premiere.
We were only playing for a fiver but the solemnity was all-consuming. The urge to laugh was as compelling as a fit of giggles in morning mass. For Joy, this wasn’t helped by the fact that I’d feed her an endless succession of extra-strong Bacardi and cokes to liven up the evening for both of us.
‘One and six, sweet sixteen.’ Silence.
‘Kelly’s eye, number one.’
‘Six and nine, your place or mine, sixty-nine.’ Disapproving tuts.
‘Erm… two little ducks, twenty-two
The professionals responded, ‘Quack, quack.’
The Bacardi would have kicked in by the second game. Combined with the tense atmosphere, it would only take the slightest silly gesture or daft comment for Joy to lose her self-control.
‘Come on!’ complained a large woman wearing Day-Glo pink. She glared at Joy like a reprimanding schoolteacher. ‘Next number.’ But Joy’s eyes were watering and her shoulders shaking up and down.
‘Eee, jiddy,’ said Joy regaining some composure. ‘Six and eight, sixty-eight. Oh no, hang on. I’ve got it upside down. Eight and nine, the Brighton line, eighty-nine.’
‘That’s not the Brighton line,’ shouted the same lady. ‘That’s five and nine, the Brighton line. Can we do it properly, please?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ replied Joy, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘Five oh, blind fifty.’
‘Five oh, five oh, it’s… off… to… work… we…’ the lady stopped singing, aware that it was a solo effort.
‘Quite,’ said Joy. ‘Major’s den, the number ten.’
‘House!’ shouted a squeaky voice from outside. It was Justin.
‘How can you have house Justin? I’ve only called out thirteen numbers. You need fifteen for a house.
‘Oh. Oh yes, I’ve got two more to get here.’
‘Doctor’s orders, number nine.’
‘House!’
‘Justin, you need one more.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Top of the shop, blind ninety.’
‘HOUSE!’ It was Justin again. ‘Oh no. That’s not mine. I need number thirty. Sorry.’
Unfortunately the next number to roll out of the little plastic cage was in fact thirty.
‘Dirty Gertie, number thirty.’
‘HOUSE! That’s me, I’ve won.’ Justin was already racing towards Joy, kicking a couple of chairs in his haste.
‘Hang on.’ The big lady was on her feet. ‘I’m not having that. It’s a fix.’
‘Sit down y’old bag!’ shouted Wayne, waving his bingo ticket at the big lady.
‘I will not sit down. This is a fix. He shouts out the number he’s waiting for and next road up it’s pulled out. I’m not having that. I want to speak to the manager.’
The other players had started to join in. ‘Boo, boo. Shame on you. Sit down. It’s only a game.’
‘I am the manager,’ said Joy over the microphone.
‘Well what are you trying to pull here?’ the fat lady asked, pointing a finger first at Joy and then at a bemused Justin. ‘He’s a ringer, isn’t he? You’re trying to con us. She’s trying to con us,’ she repeated, addressing the crowd.
Frank was shaking his head. He put his pencil behind his ear and folded his arms. ‘We’re not playing for millions here, you know. It’s only a fucking pound.’
The big lady pulled in her bosom. ‘Don’t you swear at me. Manager! Are you going to allow that kind of language in this bar?’
Joy could sense Bingo anarchy was breaking out. ‘Can we all just calm down and carry on please!’ she shouted through the microphone but her plea was in vain. Insults were being hurled back and forth as the big lady defended herself against the rest of the bar. Wayne screwed up his bingo ticket and flung it at the lady in the middle of the terrace. It struck her on the back of her head.
She wheeled round. ‘Who threw that? Come on. Who was it? Did you throw it?’ she said pointing a menacing finger at Frank, who was now smirking. As she turned to face him, another ball of paper was thrown from the other end of the terrace. It was Justin’s dad. Normally meek and mild, he was visibly shaking and vented his fury using all the might of a scrunched, six-game bingo card.
It wasn’t long before the trend had been established and the big lady was pelted from all angles before skulking off amidst a hail of missiles like a defeated sumo wrestler.
The next day, the girl phoned to check if the apartment was still available.
‘How much?’ she asked.
‘Twenty-five thousand pesetas [£100] per week, fifty thousand in total,’ said Joy.
‘I give twenty-five thousand first, twenty-five thousand after? I don’t have more money until end of month.’
Joy agreed and arranged to meet the girl the following day in the bar to take her round to the apartment and hand over the keys.
‘Have you told Siobhan yet?’ I asked.
‘No, I can’t get in touch with her. I’ll just give her the money when she comes out at Christmas. It’ll be a nice surprise for her.’
The couple that had been staying in the apartment had left it immaculate. Scatter cushions were neatly placed along the benches at an alcove dining table. Black and white portraits of classic comedy characters were reflected in the bright sheen of polished pine. In the four corners of the living room, potted cheese plants and cacti added personality to the simple square geometry of the room.
Despite the neat state in which it had been left, Joy still felt the urge to go over the marble floors once more and sprayed the bathroom suite with Windex. She’d also bought a small bouquet of flowers, which she arranged on the kitchen worktop.
At the bar that night, we received a phone call from Julie, the gestoria.
‘You’ll be getting a letter from Adeje Town Hall any day. They’ve decided in all their wisdom that all bars and restaurants in their vicinity have to have a foot tap installed in the kitchen.’
‘A foot tap? We’ve got to wash our feet in the kitchen?’ I asked.
‘No, you dope. You’ve got to have a tap that’s operated with a foot lever. They’re saying that it’s unhygienic to use your hands to turn on the tap.’
‘More likely a cousin of the mayor has a lorry load of foot taps that he doesn’t know what to do with.’
‘You’re probably right, but just thought I’d let you know,’ said Julie before hanging up.
Frank was sat at the bar complaining how boring life was in Tenerife. ‘It’s enough to drive you to drink,’ he said, adding, ‘Another half here, Joy.’
‘You bored, Frank?’ I asked.
‘Shitless,’ he replied.
‘How are you with plumbing? Reckon you could fit a foot-operated tap in the kitchen for us?’
‘I suppose it’s something to do for half an hour,’ he sighed.
The following morning, he trudged into the bar bearing an assortment of borrowed spanners and wrenches and a foot tap he’d eventually managed to track down at a builder’s merchants in Las Chafiras near the airport. The Czech girl arrived at the same time, looking sullen and still upset. She grunted a hello at Joy, ignoring Frank and me.
‘What’s up with her, miserable bitch? Got a face like a bag of spanners,’ said Frank, as Joy took her to see Siobhan’s apartment.
‘Boyfriend trouble,’ I said.
‘Mark my words. It’s more than that,’ he said. ‘She looks shifty to me.’
I left him to vent his frustrations with the world by battering the pipes under the kitchen sink with a monkey wrench.
At 5.30 we returned to the bar to get it ready for the usual six o’clock evening start. The preparation was kept to a minimum during this quiet time, a bit of salad to chop, Canarian potatoes to boil and a few chicken fillets to tenderise. I grabbed an iceberg lettuce from one of the Tupperwares in the fridge, twisted the stalk off and held it in the sink whilst I turned on the tap. Nothing happened. I remembered Frank’s mission and reached further under the sink for the pedal with my foot. I probed from side to side but failed to locate the new installation. Even when I stepped back to peer underneath there still didn’t seem to be a pedal.
I was just about to phone Frank to ask him what had gone wrong when I noticed the shiny edge of new stainless steel hidden behind the rubbish bin three feet to the right. Now on all fours, I pressed it with my hand and sure enough a whoosh of water could be heard overhead in the sink. However, when I tried to turn it on standing in front of the sink, I discovered it was just a few inches beyond reach. I bent my left leg and pointed my right foot like an overweight ballerina but it was futile. It was impossible to stand at the sink and use the foot tap at the same time.
Frank entered the bar. ‘Thought you might need this,’ he said. He held out an old golf club, a nine-iron to be exact. ‘It’s one of Danny’s. He’ll never know, he’s got loads.’ I opened my mouth but words failed me. I stood back as Frank stood in front of the sink prodding at the foot pedal with the club. ‘Hmm, you’ve still got to lean a bit. Might be better with a wood.’
‘Frank? Call me simple, but I kind of assumed you’d be able to use the foot pedal with your foot,’ I said.
‘You can,’ he replied and stepped across to where the tap protruded from the wall. ‘You just can’t do it from the sink. Fucking stupid plumbing system you’ve got here. The water doesn’t come in from under the sink, it comes in over here, so there’s no way I could put the pedal there.’
‘But that’s no good. I can’t be swinging a golf club in here every time I want some water,’ I complained.
‘Don’t blame me. Blame the fucking idiot who did the plumbing in the first place. Should’ve been shot. Anyway, you’ll get the hang of it. Here, stand there and give it a go.’
I shook my head in despair and jabbed the pedal with the nine-iron.
‘There you go, water,’ said Frank.
‘Great,’ I said with a sarcastic smile. ‘Now, if I can just grow another hand, I can actually use the sink.’
The Czech girl had handed over 25,000 pesetas to Joy and asked if she could pay the other 25,000 in four days when she was paid by the hotel.
Joy had agreed, given her the keys and wrote a receipt, noting that the other half was due on the 1st of December. However, the 1st came and went without any sight of the girl. As did the 2nd and the 3rd. On the 4th, Joy received another call from the girl, apologising for not coming in to pay. She explained that she’d been working every night and had not had the chance. She promised to come in the following night and sort it all out.
Nobody had seen her since she moved in. She hadn’t been back in the bar for a drink and hadn’t been seen either entering or leaving her apartment. The girl now had only five nights left before Siobhan’s friends arrived for a fortnight’s stay and we were both beginning to wonder if she was intending to pay any more or was just going to do a runner on her last day, next Sunday. That night in the bar, we found out the situation was much worse than that.
It was busy, even for a Tuesday, one of the changeover days. With the nights starting to become colder, plummeting to a chilly 60 Fahrenheit, our customers were forsaking al fresco dining for the nine inside tables. Those in long sleeves and long trousers waited in the bar for their coach transfer to the airport and overnight flights home. The new arrivals, adamant that shorts and t-shirts would be worn no matter what the temperature dictated, studied their faces and exposed skin like it was a barometer for what they could expect.
There were also those foolish few who insisted on wearing beachwear all the way back to the arrivals gate at their UK airport. The wisdom of their choice would be seriously questioned when they stood, ruffled and shivering, shuffling from foot to foot at the luggage carousel as clouds of breath carried muttered obscenities across the empty luggage carousels.
The end of a holiday is like the day after Christmas. The thump of reality presents itself in many guises; the Hoover lying in wait when you return the suitcases to the cupboard under the stairs; the pile of florid laundry seemingly out of place in such familiar and faded surroundings; the thick waft of cold air as you put the cat out last thing at night. All serving to remind that the fortnight of fantasy is now just another memory, destined to fade as quickly as an Anglo-Saxon tan.
‘Right Joe, thanks for all your cooking. We’re off now.’ Another family had popped their heads into the kitchen to say goodbye. This always made me nervous as it was usually at this point that one of the hardier cockroaches that had somehow escaped the exterminator would be taking an evening stroll along the ceiling or one of the white-tiled walls.
‘Take care. It was nice meeting you. See you next year.’ I waved them off with a dripping spatula.
Most people only shouted a cursory farewell, aware that it required intense concentration to keep the orders flowing and not frazzle anything. Some however, took the opportunity to show off their ‘special relationship’ with the chef by spending as long as possible leaning on the serving shelf, forcing a conversation.
Despite the fact that David or I would be dashing around the kitchen in near panic, trying to concentrate on the matter in hand and only grunting when we guessed it was necessary to respond, they would still carry on with their chosen topic, getting in the way when Joy would try to take out the plates.
‘Anyway, nice to talk to you. I can see you’re busy,’ they’d say eventually, unaware of just how close they were to being surgically fitted with a pair of catering tongs.
‘Joe, look who’s here?’ Joy exclaimed, leading an old couple into the kitchen. She often did this. Not as any act of public relations, just because she liked to see me squirm. She may have had a photographic memory capable of remembering the names, preferred drinks, favourite food and collar size of every single customer that walked through our doors but she knew damn well that I wouldn’t have the slightest clue as to the identity of the people being paraded in front of me.
‘Heeellooo,’ I said with feigned sincerity. ‘Nice to see you again. Long time no see.’ Thankfully this was always enough to fool them into thinking that I really did remember. Behind them, Joy was knowingly shaking her head, dismayed at my lack of recognition.
‘Yes, it’s exactly a year,’ said the man. He was dressed in a blue blazer, one of the old school of airline p
assengers.
‘Well it’s good to have you back,’ I said with all the sincerity I could muster. ‘I’ll come out for a drink in a minute.’ Joy would wheel them out making dumb gestures at me for my memory deficiency.
Not only was the night busy for orders, it was also busy with people bidding farewell and Joy trying to catch me out with new arrivals. However, I did recognise the next person she brought in and this time Joy wasn’t smiling.
‘Tell him what you’ve just told me.’ Joy had her arms folded and was standing behind the Czech girl, blocking the doorway.
‘I have problem. I no place to go Friday,’ said the girl quietly.
‘Well, I’m sorry but you have to leave. The owner’s friends have booked the apartment from Friday. Sorry,’ I said sympathetically.
‘My boyfriend he know law. You not make me sleep on beach. He talk with lawyer. I not leave Friday. I use money I owe you for lawyer.’
‘Whoa, hold on,’ I said, waving a meat cleaver. The girl recoiled. ‘You are leaving on Friday and you are going to pay the rest of the money.’ I was leaning over the serving shelf, inches from the girl. She was nervous and understandably uncomfortable with the cleaver waving but still adamant that she wasn’t moving out.
‘I want speak with owner,’ said the girl.
Siobhan still didn’t know that there was someone renting her apartment. Joy was worried that she might think she was letting it out behind her back in order to keep the money, a common ploy in resort areas. She dialled Siobhan’s number and told her what had happened, apologising at the end of every sentence.
‘Put her on,’ demanded Siobhan. She was not a woman to be messed with. We had seen her turn on Mike on several occasions, almost reducing the ex-soldier to tears. Joy handed the phone to the girl. The colour drained from her face as soon as Siobhan started.
‘Right, you bitch. You get out of my apartment, do you hear? I have friends coming on Friday and I want you out. And if you don’t pay the rest of that money, you’re in deep shit, lady. Do you hear me? DEEP SHIT!’ I could hear Siobhan’s sharp, Northern Irish accent from across the kitchen.
Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set Page 80
